


Hallowed Be Thy Name

by AlleiraDayne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, Hell, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Torture, escaping hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 05:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18584971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: Snapshots of Dean's time in Hell.





	Hallowed Be Thy Name

**Author's Note:**

> For SPN Heaven & Hell Bingo, this fills the square Escaping Hell.

_May 2nd, 2008_

Hooks cleaved the meat of his flesh and metal bindings gouged his wrist and ankles.

“Hello?!”

Fire licked at his skin, teased at the soles of his feet, and Dean wrenched away violently.

“Somebody help me!”

The wails of lost souls echoed him as Dean thrashed against his shackles.

“Sam!”

As the sun set on his first day on the rack, Dean convinced himself it had been worth it. His soul for Sam's life. It had to be worth it. Right?

Dean Winchester wished he could die.

Except he was already dead.

_May 9 th, 2008_

“Do you know what day it is, Dean?”

Alastair paced bedside the table, a wicked looking device in his hand. Dean stared straight ahead into the deep dark nothing of Hell, unseeing. He knew what day it was but didn't care. How could he? After two years, Dean knew nothing but pain.

Anguished cries from that endless dark clawed at his very soul. But he knew they weren't real. He had tried to save them once. Tried to free then. None of those souls deserved to suffer the way they did. The way he did.

But it had been a trick. And a very painful lesson. Two years had passed and he yet bore the lacerations. Time stretched so thin on the rack, Dean had forgotten how long he had laid upon it until Alastair taunted him.

For the first few months, Dean had survived on the hope that Sam would find a way to get him out. But every day on that damn rack, with Alastair stripping every ounce of his humanity from him, that hope had faded into a desperate longing for release.

Dean Winchester wanted to die.

Except he was already dead.

_June 2 nd, 2008_

A decade.

That had to be some sort of record. Souls tortured in Hell rarely lasted more than a week, he'd noticed. A few made it a month. And one bright light had lasted a year. Poor thing. She fought the break for months. Retreated inward, just like he had. But it came eventually. In time, she broke just like the rest of them.

Just like he had.

Wasn’t so bad, really. At least broken, he didn't have to think so much. Or worry about how to escape. A part of him had gotten used to the routine. Physical pain paled when the mind fled, existing elsewhere during those endless moments.

Dean Winchester prayed for death.

Except he was already dead.

_July 2 nd, 2008_

He had forgotten his birthday.

Somewhere in the last decade, he had turned forty. Not that anyone cared. Least of all Dean. He had. At one point, he had promised himself not to forget it. To count the days and see this fortieth birthday.

But he had forgotten. He had lost count. Forty had come and gone, silent and quick, like a thief in the night.

And on its heels came the offer. With the offer, a modicum of freedom seeded a flicker of hope. But the price had been too steep. He would never stoop to Alastair’s level. No matter how much of his blood spilled, his flesh rent, his soul screamed, Dean promised himself he would never forget the sacrifice he had made for Sam.

But he had forgotten his own birthday.

Dean Winchester felt as though he were dying.

Except he was already dead.

_August 2 nd, 2008_

Three.

Three decades. Dean had turned fifty somewhere in that endless span of terror. Again, not that he cared. Or even remembered. All that mattered now was that he was off the rack.

A fresh soul had replaced him and he clung to a devious scalpel, a dull, rusted thing Alastair had first used on him. Poetic, Dean thought. The apprentice had become the master and the master the subject.

Dean stared into those lifeless grey eyes and wanted nothing more than to shove the scalpel through his throat. Rather than fulfill Alastair's deal, he wanted everything to end.

Dean Winchester tried to kill himself.

Except he was already dead.

_September 2 nd, 2008_

By the time Dean turned sixty, he knew nothing but torture. And if he had thought his time on the rack painful, nothing could have prepared him for the pain he felt as he sliced into fresh souls, poor bastards dumb enough to make deals like he had.

He had to do it. Either torture those souls or go back on the rack. He feared that if he went back, there might not be anything left of him when he escaped. And escape he would.

Unless Dean Winchester could somehow die.

Except he was already dead.

_September 18 th, 2008_

In a moment of rare silence, fire hotter than he had ever felt on the rack gripped him like a vice, lanced from his shoulder through his entire body. Dean awoke to unimaginable pain, screaming into the endless void.

But when he opened his eyes, he found the void penetrated by a single pinprick of light, so small and so faint like the single molecule of hope that remained to him. Without hesitation, he ran, sprinted, fueled by the fire that held him fast and urged onward by some unseen force.

Claws and hooks, barbs and spikes snagged his skin, his clothes, his soul. But they could not touch his hope. They could not touch the power that raised him up through the endless depths of Hell and into that ever growing light.

Blinded, Dean shielded his eyes as the beacon flared brighter than the sun, and the gates of Hell disappeared behind him.

Dean Winchester wanted to breath.

Except he was already breathing.

 


End file.
